


these bonds are shackle free

by narquelie



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narquelie/pseuds/narquelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Everything would be fine.</i> Wasn't it what he'd promised her once?</p>
            </blockquote>





	these bonds are shackle free

**Author's Note:**

> I really couldn't believe there wasn't more about these two; my beautiful tragic OTP. They really need more recognition in the fandom. It turned out a bit darker than I expected, but it's nearly impossible to stay canon and write something lighthearted about these two. Also, a big thank you to whispered touches for being a lovely beta. Oh, and I guess it might be helpful to know that this is purely book!verse, so when I think about Cinna it's Hugh Dancy, as for Portia - Chloë Sevigny.

 

_get through this night, there are no second chances.  
this time i might. to ask the sea for answers. _   
(placebo / ask for answers)

 

 

\--

 

_They start with her fingers. They are long and thin, perfect for playing the piano or sewing ballgowns, or tracing patterns on a lover's skin, or drawing sunrises and trees._

_But they are fingers no more._

 

 

 

**4.**

Let's get this straight: Portia never wanted to be a part of the rebellion. Life was hard as it was, with school, and nasty girls, and being too thin to be fashionable at the time. And the Hunger Games, what about them? They were supposed to be fun, weren't they, even if you heard your father scream at night the names of the children that died because of him (he was one of the designers of the arena – a brilliant man, the most inventive of them all, she was told).

And later, when she'd finished high school and grew up, she didn't want to change anything either. She was cold-blooded, with a heart of stone (she liked to think so about herself), and it was normal, everything was normal, and there was never a need to change, because change always had bad consequences (like when her father had resigned from his position and a week later--). And it wasn't as if she couldn't sleep at night or wanted to puke her heart out every time autumn came. _(Lies.)_

She liked to paint.

 

–

 

Her paintings were overly bright and cheerful at the beginning. The sun, big and bright, the fields, of gold and flowers, beautiful girls in fancy dresses, handsome gentleman dressed in dashing tuxedos.

When she went to college, her perspective changed. She was clashed with a crowd of modified creatures, trashy colors and animal features. She didn't feel she fit into the wilderness of the real Capitol.

It reminded her of a jungle.

_(like the Games)_

_  
_

-

 

Her first job was easy. She dressed a couple (rich, and old, and tasteless) which suited her just fine: she was good with classical structure. She received her first self-earned money on a Tuesday. It was still bright outside but she went drinking anyway.

 

-

 

It was different in Capitol. You didn't really have anything of your own; your secrets got told, your things got lost, your feelings were being toyed with and it was _normal_.

She got drunk and danced and met _a boy_. He had green hair and eyes of a snake. She didn't care.

She never cared anymore.

 

-

 

She got District 12 when she almost _(almost)_ comforted herself with a thought that the horrors of the Hunger Games were behind her. Portia cried that night, muffling her choking sobs with a pillow.

Days passed. She slowly got accustomed to the ways of the stylists; studied past designs, tried to paint something of her own. She met her prep team (they would have been charming if they weren't so stupid) and her fellow stylist.

 

-

 

He was tall and dark _(and a stranger)_ but his eyes were golden and his mouth curved into the most perfect of smiles when he greeted her.

“Hello, Portia.”

 

-

 

3.

_Peeta's screams echo through the building and pierce her soul. She used to wonder, during her hours of misery, what they'll do with the children when the Games end. (–if they get out alive--). There was no hope for Peeta to live, she knew it from the very beginning; his eyes told her that. He was certain to die (for the foolish girl)._

_It's not human, the way he screams;_

_(she imagines his baby blues as he faces his nightmares, the blue turns gray as if someone has put too much dirty water to the paint, she imagines his fingers crawling at his skin leaving angry dark marks, she imagines his lips bitten and bloody, and she imagines his heart shattered like glass on the floor or like Portia's heart);_

_a dying animal is a better description._

_Portia trembles on the ground with a silent scream on her lips and prays to finally see the end.  
_  
-

 

She met Cinna at college, out of all places. She was twenty-two and her hair was long (she liked to wear it loose, a curtain from the world), he was twenty-five and lost in the world.

_(A boy and a girl lost at sea.)_

_  
_

-

 

Autumns were red. Crimson leaves falling from trees, burning sunsets above the city and blood of the Hunger Games. It reminded her of hell.

They spent hours in the library. It was silent there, the air heavy with dust and the smell of old paper. Watching the Games was unbearable for both of them, though she never asked Cinna why. He kept his past secret, including his family (if he even had one) or his friends. He lived in a small messy apartment in the suburbs. It was as if a thunder had gone through it; papers on the walls, pictures on the ground, coffee cups, books, food leftovers, fabrics buttons scissors needles threads-- She wanted to pick up the pieces and put them back into their rightful place (though she didn't know if it were really the objects that were on her mind).

On those rare occasions that she visited his flat, he would sit her on his tiny sofa and busy himself with preparing coffee while she would pick up a newspaper from the floor.

It would be from District 13, but she would never care.

 

-

 

“Do you think it's going to end someday?” she asked once upon a time, a jagged cup biting into her palm while the rain poured outside the windows.

“Of course it will,” he said, and his eyes burned dangerously. She wondered sometimes if he was a madman, or Capitol's bait to break her and put behind bars, or if his newspapers (battered and torn and read back to back) were just a steak of lies because District 13 was destroyed almost seventy years ago.

“The wait is the worst,” she continued, staring blankly at the wall, “when the children are dying one by one and you can do nothing to help them-”.

The silence filled the room like a fog, thick and heavy. Portia licked her lips and looked at his face, suddenly so tired and grown up. There was a crease between his brows, and dark circles under his eyes, hands firmly grasping his cup, green eyes never leaving hers.

“Where are you from, Cinna?”

“I think you already know the answer.”

 

-

 

He left when the first leaves started to appear on their trees. He took with him his mess, and paintings, and coffee and a _(small tiny little)_ piece of her.

She wanted to scream 'come back' and 'don't leave me' after him, but it wasn't something Portia would do; because Portia never cared anymore, right?

“I'll be back soon,” he whispered after planting a kiss on the corner of her mouth, but she didn't believe. She didn't believe when the seasons changed and he wasn't there, she didn't believe when she sat alone on the bench in their park or when she received her diploma.

Portia threw herself into work, the only sure thing she had in life. She grasped the edges and outlined the blurry lines. She bought an apartment (bright, big and clinically clean with a view on the gardens), buried her mother (died in her sleep, poor dear) and made a name for herself (such a brilliant, brilliant artist). She found herself a boyfriend (or two, or three), but she never felt the need to stay close to anyone for longer. Loneliness was good. It brought a kind of safety and stability, the knowledge that her life was in her own hands no matter what. Unchangeable _(because change was bad)_. Sometimes her nightmares resurfaced and nights became cold and sweaty and filled with screams, but she learned how to cope with them (deep breath, a cup of chocolate, a shot of vodka, flames in the fireplace). With time they deteriorated, leaving her peaceful and finally free of her father's Games.

Until she got the message from the Capitol, that is.

_(“Congratulations!” it said, while she wanted to kill herself with a teaspoon)_

_  
_

-

 

**2.**

_It's freezing in the room and the bright electric light hurts her eyes. Cold sweat runs down her spine making her shiver and bite the insides of her mouth. She's scared, though not as scared as she used to be; it's as if she's being drained of herself, her feelings pouring out of her, leaving her empty. The pain in her right hand has become nothing more than a dim throbbing; she tries not to notice it, keeping her hand under the table._

_“Are you ready to talk to us now?” asks the man before her, all sharp features and neatly combed hair. She just stares at him, face blank, eyes empty. There is a big black bruise right under her eye – a reminder that she doesn't know the words they would like to hear._

_He presses a button behind the table and the door opens; two guards walk in with cruel lips and even crueler hands. Portia closes her eyes.  
_  
-

 

“I want Katniss.”

“You're very welcome to have her,” she spat through her tight smile, never averting her eyes from the book she was reading. Cinna took it from her hands and sat on the table beside.

“You know I didn't mean it like that,” he said, staring into her eyes with such intensity that she had to look away. She knew what he wanted to say, but she wouldn't make it simple for him, not a bit. “I was needed at home, that's why we didn't see each other for so long. I'm sorry, I should have told you”.

She wanted to ask him all the 'why's and 'what for's but it was impossible in a room with microphones and cameras in every painting and vase. Instead, she put her hand on his, giving it a gentle squeeze. A smile crept on his face, lighting it up like a sunrise. She could never hate him, she realized then.

“How did you do, all this time? I've heard that you're now one of the best, I'm so proud,” and he actually really seemed to be, for his green eyes sparkled with flecks of gold, and the smile grew wider, and there was something... something she couldn't put a finger on, but it made her heart flutter, which hadn't happened for a long time.

Portia found that quite distressing.

 

-

 

They took a walk around town and talked in hushed tones about the future. He wished he would make a change at last, that he would bring freedom and happiness, he and other people that worked for the Cause. She listened, and nodded and smiled back, but in her heart she knew it would never be like that. For great things to happen there needed to be even greater sacrifices. His enthusiasm was contagious, and ideas brilliant, but she couldn't find it in her to believe him. She had seen too much in her life.

(But so had he.)

She relished in the warmth of his body next to hers and the gentle sound of his voice. The wind was blowing in her face, the smell of winter nearing hitting her senses; she took deep breathes, marveling at the beauty of nature around her. A new world, he repeated, where everyone would be equal, and free to believe in whatever he wanted, to speak out, to achieve his dreams; to _be_.

And in the chilly autumn air, she suddenly felt warmth through her glove as his fingers laced with hers, squeezing her hand tightly.

 

-

 

He was in love with her, Portia realized with a great wave of sadness. She offered him some fruit for dessert but he declined politely, then complimented the view from the window and her choice of curtains. He said it was marvelous, the things he saw there, like taken straight from a picture.

Underneath the polite smile and easy cheerfulness, he was scared, so very, very scared, and she wasn't sure if it was for himself or for the girl.

“I'll try not to be overly drastic,” she said, smiling at him warmly (it was so easy to smile in his presence, or laugh), “I know that men aren't too fond of beauty treatments, but I'm sure you'll manage.”

“After all, there are much worse things to come,” Peeta threw jokingly, but the sinking feeling in her stomach came back, and suddenly it was much harder to keep the smile on her face.

 

-

 

Portia observed them, quarreling at first, then developing a sort of a bond, then becoming friends. At least from Katniss's point of view, because Peeta's feelings were unwavering from the very beginning. It pained her to see him, so foolishly fond of a girl who would never feel the same way, and who treated him like an obstacle. (But he was an obstacle – for her to stay alive.)

Some nights she would find him alone in the living room, staring into space with wide eyes full of fear. He never told her he was scared, like he never told her he loved Katniss, but she knew it all the same. She would sneak her arm around him and pull him into an embrace; they could sit like that for hours, until they were ready to face their nightmares on their own.

 

-

 

“Listen to me!” Haymitch growled, shaking her shoulders painfully. “You will not try any of this Capitol bullshit ever again, is that clear? I don't care what Cinna says, I don't trust you. You might be a false, lying bitch just like all the others from here, for all I know. So get off of the boy, or else it'll be much less pleasant.”

Her cheeks were burning and rage filled her like fire, chest heaving with shallow breaths. Her hand moved out of its own accord and slapped him hard, the sound echoing in her ears and throbbing inside her head. Haymitch touched the red mark on his cheek, disbelief written across his face. He might want to slap her back, she mused, or kill her, but she would not allow it, not ever. No one would push her around.

“If I left Peeta to your sole care, he wouldn't have made it through a day. What use would he have from a smelly old drunkard? From you he could only learn how to ruin his life.”

They never spoke again.

 

-

 

Sobs shook her body uncontrollably and she buried her face in her hands trying to muffle the sound. Both teams were clapping and cheering around her; she heard the glasses being placed on the table and the bottles being opened.

They were safe, _both_ of them.

It was too much; too many days filled with fear, too many sleepless nights, too many heartbreaks (she remembered the moment when she'd thought they'd lost Peeta – she remembers how she'd crumbled into pieces to never be put back again, never to be the same). They'd sat in the screening room nearly all the time, taking turns in sleeping or making awfully strong coffee. She'd lost track of how long they'd kept going like that.

She rose her head to see Cinna standing before her; deathly pale, with lips bitten and his hair sticking in every direction. He looked as drained as she was, but most of all, he was relieved. It was radiating from his body like warmth from the sun, coaxing her trembling nerves. He sat next to her and drew his arms around her. She closed her eyes again, trying to calm her breathing.

_Everything would be fine._ Wasn't it what he'd promised her once?

“We'll be fine,” he whispered into her ear, stubble scratching her cheek.

 

-

 

 

**1.**

_She screams for him; it echoes in the cell, her voice hoarse and broken. It's hard to feel anything anymore, there's nothing left of her at all._

_  
_

-

 

Portia was painting her nails when her assistant came in with the letter. Her hand didn't even tremble.

 

-

 

“Out of all the stupid ideas you've had, this is surely the worst,” she blurted out when he showed her his designs of the dress. It was beautiful, and brilliant, and surprisingly suitable for Katniss, but he would pay for it with his life. The realization made her sick

“It will get you killed.”

He laughed at her, brushing it off. “Don't be so dramatic, darling. Why would they? It's just a dress.”

“You know what I'm talking about. It's an act of rebellion, and you know what they do with those who try it. Don't lie to me, Cinna. Why are you doing this? It's a suicide mission! Haven't you done enough already for the cause? The riot has started--”, she stopped suddenly, his gaze telling her everything she needed to know.

She felt betrayed.

Cinna stood by the window, whiskey in hand. He was swirling the amber liquid in his glass, unable to look at her anymore. Maybe he felt guilty, she couldn't tell, or tired of her constant disapproval. Her only wish was to keep him safe, was that so wrong of her?

“The thing is,” he started finally, after taking a sip from the glass, “that I don't really know how to change the bodice as it's made from a different fabric that the rest. I know that it's dangerous and I would never live with myself if anything happened to you because of that, but knowing that you're a master in that department, I just can't help but wonder –“

But Portia was not a martyr, nor was she a hero.

At least she had always thought so.

“Dear Lord, give me that.”

She had fallen in too deep.

 

-

 

It was harder than the first time, with their friendship having developed so rapidly during the year, and with everything they'd been through together. She fought hard not to cry as Peeta walked into her study, and she clutched the boy tightly to her chest.

“I'm so sorry, dear,” she said, smoothing his hair. He looked at her with his big blue eyes of a child and shot a brave smile.

“There's nothing to be sorry about, Port. Or worry, because you're surely going to say that too. I'll be fine. We have a wedding to attend to after all this, remember? And what's a wedding without a bride or groom, so, there's no way in hell that I would not come back, same for Katniss. See?”

But after, when they grew serious again, and emptied a bottle of wine, she found out about his true plans.

She'd known them from the very first time she'd met him.

(This time it hurt even more.)

 

-

 

“Remember to twirl, girl on fire,” Cinna instructed Katniss one last time before they left for the night. He was burning with excitement and anticipation, that dangerous fire that Portia remembered from their first meetings in his flat ages ago visible in his eyes. He was determined to be proud of his job, not to be terrified of the effects it would cause. But she could see from the corner of her eye how he was scratching his forearms, his nails leaving three red lines on the skin, she saw him biting his lips and sometimes drawing blood.

It was the scariest thing of all.

 

-

 

Few hours later she found herself knocking on his door with desperation she didn't think she was capable of. He opened at once, the smell of whiskey hitting her nostrils. Her vision became blurry and the only thing she was sure of were his arms around her, as he pushed her inside his room and his lips left a burning trail down her throat.

He pulled at her shirt, tearing it in two, but as her legs hit the mattress, she couldn't find it in herself to care.

 

-

 

Katniss walked up and twirled, and became the mockingjay once more. Cinna bowed, his head high and defiant, as the crowd cheered, unaware of what was actually happening.

_(They were drowningdrowningdrowning –)_

Portia grasped his hand as if he was her lifeline.

Maybe he was.

 

-

 

They were still alive, after.

And the next day too.

She thought for a second that he had been right; that they would be alright after all.

_Everything will be fine_ , she thought.

 

-

 

The capsule took off, and she closed her eyes.

She would never see the sky again.


End file.
